MINA SMITH, WRITER & CREATOR

This started with a writing prompt about writing a two-sentence love story, but then it grew into something else.

It was only twenty minutes back to my apartment but with his hand on my thigh, a place where his hand had never been before in all the years we'd been friends, I knew it would be the longest ride of my life. Our gazes were lovingly tangled together and, for an unfortunate moment, the road and its occupants became a secondary concern.

My memories of him are filled with slow smiles and cool guy nods; he liked rap music and collecting belts. But also of his twisted body, bleeding, broken, lifeless. Dead on arrival they called him. I was still alive on arrival, but my heart was gone. The rest of me healed but that never came back. It stayed there, huddled around the dark memory of his voice, raised in terror, rotting a hole in my chest where he should have been.

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